Four Seasons in the Life of Peter Pettigrew
by BitchPrincessOfPunkRock
Summary: Four pseudo-drabbles about the seasons according to a certain rat animagus. Rating for possible language. Will contain mentions of James/Lily, and possibly implied Remus/Sirius.
1. Autumn

_**Yes, yes, I know I should be updating my other fic, but I've been very busy getting my shit together for exhibitions and the like, and I needed a little break. I will update it soon, I promise.**_

_**This is just a little set of almost-drabbles that popped into my head. Will contain mentions of James/Lily and probably implied Remus/Sirius. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!**_

**Four Seasons in the Life of Peter Pettigrew**

**Autumn**

Autumn is, quite simply, the month of the Marauders.

It is coming to kings cross on the first of September and hunting for those three faces that make school something more than endless studying and mediocre results. It is the joy of retelling the stories of summer and watching the comparison of heights, the endless argument of _No, I've definitely grown more_, because Peter never was tall enough to compete.

Autumn is hearing all about the exciting magical things his friends did in their three month absence, because Peter lives with his mother and grandmother, who are both Muggles to the bone. He smiles encouragingly at James' new and elaborate and completely useless plans in the grand scheme to woo Lily Evans. He looks appropriately scandalised at Sirius' tales of his family and their appalling practices. And he nods sympathetically, apologetically, to Remus' explanations of new transformation wounds. But he avidly listens to all of it, thrilled at the reunion with his favourite people in the world.

Peter also loves autumn because it is the only season which includes three massive feasts.

The start of term feast is always the best. Sirius thinks it's done on purpose, to impress the newbie's. Remus is inclined to agree. Peter doesn't much care. The sorting is always fun, betting on who will be placed where. Peter is quite observant, and he usually ends up better off than he started. Then, of course, there is the food. Endless and wonderful as it is. That's Peter's favourite part.

There is a smaller feast for Bonfire Night, a holiday many Witches and Wizards neither celebrate nor understand, but one with which Dumbledore has a strange appreciation. It is not as exuberant as the welcome banquet, but it usually involves fireworks of some sort, shining through the enchanted ceiling.

Right in the middle of Autumn, between the other two feasts, falls Halloween.

The Marauder's Holiday.

Halloween is always excellent. Peter celebrated Halloween as a Muggle when he was little. Silly costumes, novelty sweets and half-arsed pumpkins are nothing compared to a Hogwarts Halloween.

Everything is orange and brown and autumn-y. The Great Hall is decorated with pumpkins the size of small cars, all grown by Hagrid and transfigured to various backlit faces by McGonagall and charmed to sing or shout or silently glower by Flatwick. They float across the hall in the place of the usual candles, casting orange light on the ravenous student body.

Everyone looks content. The teachers are drinking butterbeer and growing merrier by the minute. The Ravenclaws have stopped studying for one of only four days in the year that it is acceptable. The Hufflepuffs are chanting a happy song more than a little off-key. The Slytherins even look almost passably satisfied and, as such, the Gryffindors are waiting with baited breath.

What good is a Marauder holiday without pranks.

But nothing happens, and eventually they stop waiting and happily indulge in some holiday food. A few suspicious glances are cast their way, mainly from the Teachers and Prefects. Nobody notices the sly grin shared by James and Sirius, or the little mischievous glint in Remus' eyes, but Peter knows they are there.

When the desserts appear before them, Peter grabs a gingerbread ghost and turns towards the Slytherin table just in time to see every pumpkin pie explode in a mash of stringy and gooey and orange.

The hall bursts collectively into laughter of varying degrees, and Peter swears he even sees McGoogle's lips twitch upwards.

He bites the ghosts head off, chewing emphatically, as the Slytherins coated in the slimy pastry - and smelling delicious - break into an uncontrollable rendition of a very improvised, very filthy, 'trick or treat' song.

Yes, autumn is the month of the Marauders.

Halloween is most certainly the Marauding Holiday.


	2. Winter

**Four Seasons in the Life of Peter Pettigrew**

**Winter**

Winter. Winter is cold and stiff and embarrassing, Peter thinks. It is second on the _Torment List _only to Summer and it's cursed swimming pools, when he is forced to stand topless and podgy between the toned and athletic Sirius Black and James Potter.

Winter is not embarrassing because of a lack of clothes. In fact, Peter is currently wrapped up in as many layers as there was fabric available to cover him in - which totals in roughly six and a half - as is everyone else, making them all look a bit padded and clumsy.

The difference is they are not, actually, padded and clumsy. But Peter is.

It used to be easy, when he was younger. Walking through snow, Peter decides, is a skill that deteriorates with age. As early as three years old, Peter could run endlessly around the local park with his mother in winter, a Muggle habit she never grew out of. He'd never fall, snow and ice be damned, though she'd always needlessly worry he would.

Even at eleven, his first year in Hogwarts, snow was a wonderful thing. He and James and Sirius had bolted around the grounds like madmen. Back when he could keep up, back when Remus was the odd one, not him. It hadn't mattered then that they looked like fools, stumbling about in the snow. Hadn't mattered that they couldn't feel their fingers or toes, that their skin had a distinct bluish tinge to it.

It mattered now.

Now, in sixth year, it wasn't fun to collapse into the snow without meaning to, because certain people with red hair might be watching and James couldn't risk it. It wasn't acceptable to have numb extremities because, Sirius assured him, there were _much _better things to be doing with fingers than freezing them off. And staying outside long enough to change colour was out because it was really rather unflattering when Remus' face flushed pink with exertion and froze blue with cold and they met in the middle, right at the stark white scar across his nose, making him look uncannily like a scrunched up Union Jack.

So winter is cold and stiff and, most of all, embarrassing. It is all well and good for Sirius and James and Remus, who all have the athletic litheness, graceful movements and animal instincts - or some combination of them - to manage not to fall. Peter doesn't.

He struggles after them, down the precarious path down to Hagrid's hut, where they are going for Christmas tea. It goes well, until about half way, where he stumbles and rolls unceremoniously to the bottom, hurtling past his friends.

He shakes his head to clear it, and prepares to brush himself off and apologise and blush as they insult him. Instead, a hand is offered. He takes it, and is pulled to a sit. James grins at him.

' That was great, Pete. You alright?'

' Yeah,' Peter replies, shakily, as James brushes excess snow off his shoulder.

' Good, good,' James says, before grabbing a handful of the pure white powder and smearing it across Peter's cheek.

They all laugh, hysterically. Even Peter, as he realises that Lily Evans must have gone home for the holidays. He clambers to his feet and another snowball is thrown. He retaliates, revelling in the nostalgic experience. This is it, he thinks, the last vestige of his childhood. After this, it is war and fighting and work and lots of other grown-up things he doesn't want to think about.

His snowball hits James in the back of the head, exploding snow over everyone. Sirius - who doesn't seem to care his fingers are frozen - tackles Remus - who has forgotten his face had turned the colour of a national flag - to the ground, straddling him with practiced ease. Remus pretends to imprint a snow angel into the ground, then gathers up an armful of cold and wet and stuffs it joyfully up Sirius' shirt.

Sirius yelps and jumps up. James keels over laughing. Remus makes a run for it. He almost makes it to Hagrid's before the dark-haired boys surround him. Peter decides he should help his fellow, and grabs a handful of icy powder.

The grown up things can wait, he thinks, shivering. A little with cold and a little with joy.


	3. Spring

**Four Seasons in the Life of Peter Pettigrew**

**Spring**

Spring is the epitome of all that is new.

It is when the deceptive wildflowers begin to sprout up in colourful patches, bright and inviting, along the outskirts of the dark, foreboding forest. The lake thaws and the Giant Squid comes out to frolic with the students who find time to sit with their feet dipped in the refreshingly cool water. Which isn't very often, truth be told.

Panic is rife in the castle. It is the time of year when students all around the school are prone to burst into random, eccentric mantras of revision and spontaneous blurting of paraphrased notes. Exam time is creeping ever nearer. Fifth and Seventh years are rarely seen without a significant crease between the eyebrows and a frown turning down the corners of their mouths as the OWLs and NEWTs approach.

One seventh year who seems wholly unconcerned with the looming exams is a certain Mister Prongs. And he did have a fairly good reason, Peter muses.

Because Spring is also the month when Lily Evans finally agrees to go out with James Potter on _**one**_ date.

One date turned into two, then three and four. Before Peter knows what has happened Lily Evans is an almost permanent feature in the Marauding instillation.

Peter doesn't like it, he decides, as he is sat to one side of the common room. It is bustling with people from all years, all Houses - or three quarters of them, at least. It is a party, of course. Not any party, but the same joint birthday party they have had for James and Remus in March every year for the last six.

Peter doesn't like it because this year he sits alone in a corner of the room, even at a party he helped orchestrate. His friends are all elsewhere, hidden amongst the throng of people, drunk and sober and slightly tipsy.

He sees Alice Ollie reservedly pour herself another drink, staring wistfully into space, probably thinking about Frank Longbottom - her boyfriend - who graduated last year. Benjy Fenwick winks lecherously at Marlene McKinnon from across the room, but is so sloshed he doesn't catch the disgusted look on her face when she turns back to her friends. He watches Mary MacDonald grind her hips into Davey Gudgeon's crotch, both of them giggling. Emmeline Vance is snogging Benny Abbott, a nameless Weasley cousin is vomiting in the corner, and Bertram Aubrey is dancing something like the jive with a table lamp.

It is all very funny, but Peter can't laugh because he is sat alone.

He casts around the room once more, hopelessly searching for a sign of the friends he thought wouldn't abandon him. He catches a glimpse of red hair in an armchair, dangling down to meet jet black mess as Lily gave James a very thorough birthday kissing.

That is the problem, Peter thinks. All his friends have got girls. He has only got them.

He looks around again, looking for Sirius, who will also be talking to some poor defenceless fan girl, hanging on his every word. What he sees instead is Sirius grabbing the other birthday boy around the wrist and leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Sirius looks positively wicked, Remus spares a nervous look around before nodding and they run up to the dorm. Must be a prank Peter has been excluded from, yet again. They've been spending a lot of time together, lately.

Peter sighs, and notices his glass is empty. He wanders listlessly over to the stack of beverages. He passes over the butterbeer and makes a grab for the fire whiskey.

' Rough day?' a cheerful voice asks.

Peter turns to face a bubbly, blonde girl. He recognises her as a sixth year, a Gryffindor like himself. Dorcas, he thinks her name is. Dorcas Meadows. He gives her a small smile and nods. She grins back.

' You're Peter Pettigrew, aren't you?'

' Err… Yeah,' he replies, more than a little startled to be known as anything other than _James' friend_.

She grabs his hand unashamedly, like James, and smirks devilishly, like Sirius. There is a certain secret glint in her eye, like Remus, when she says, ' I can make it _nice_ rough.'

Maybe this is what he needs, Peter muses. Someone to disappear into corners with, someone to remind him not everything is about his friends. She pulls gently, and he follows.


	4. Summer

**Four Seasons in the Life of Peter Pettigrew**

**Summer**

Summer has always been terrifying for Peter.

It should be the best part of the year - no homework or deadlines or strict, disappointed teachers. It should be all about the sun and the freedom and having as much fun as possible with the best friends in the world. But it isn't.

Sure, Peter had had bad summers before.

He had spent weeks worrying that the friends he admired so much would abandon him in their time apart. Had spent months left alone to contemplate the realisms of having a werewolf roommate, and months more several years later trying desperately to master a difficult transformation in the name of helping said creature of darkness, said _friend_.

Peter had been as aware of the attacks on Muggles as any student at Hogwarts, coming from a muggle home. His mother was woefully ignorant of the situation, so he fretted for her, and had since fifth year - when Jamie Hargreaves' parents were killed.

But nothing like this. This is new and unavoidable and terrifying.

Not two years out of school, and Peter can't go a week without hearing of another classmates death. Benjy Fenwick was blown to pieces at Christmas. Caradoc Dearborn never returned from his mission in Wales. And, Oh God, they even got to Dorcas.

Dear, sweet Dorcas Meadows, nineteen years old, dead. The only girl to ever see Peter as more than _James Potter's shadow_. The only person who didn't think less of him for being scared, and not being able to cover it up with a smirk or a bravado or even a stoic calm, like the other Marauders.

But the Marauders are gone now, aren't they? James is living with Lily and little Harry, playing happy families in the midst of all the fighting. Sirius and Remus are living together, though why, Peter cannot fathom. And no one has time for Peter anymore.

The war is taking it's toll on everyone. The Order are outnumbered to an absurd degree, and they know it more and more, as people vanish in the night or explode in the street.

But Dumbledore keeps sending them out on these increasingly dangerous missions. Wise, omnipotent old Dumbledore, who doesn't really know any more than the rest of them, but has somehow been placed in charge of all of their lives. And what a lot of good that did to Benjy Fenwick and Caradoc Dearborn and to the McKinnon Family - murdered in their home bloodily and brutally not a week ago.

And poor, sweet little Dorcas.

Peter has never been as brave as his friends. Sometimes he thinks they should know that, should be able to see it in his eyes when he lies to them and tells hem his mother is sick. He half wishes they will see it, and he wont be stuck in this horrible, terrifying position anymore.

No, Peter has never been as brave as his friends, and when they come to recruit him - like he knew they would, just like they did for James and Lily - he can't find it in himself to refuse them. His cursed, traitorous mouth agrees to help them, feed them information, and his _Gryffindor Spirit _curls up in his stomach and dies a painful death.

_I'm not James,_ Peter reminds himself._ I'm not courageous and brave like he is. I'm not as unyielding and loyal as Sirius, as committed and determined as Remus. I'm the rat, the lookout, the _Spy_. _

But Peter is still terrified. He isn't on either side of this war, he is in the middle. And he doesn't want to be caught in the crossfire. But he doesn't know how not to be. Not after what they did to Dorcas, what they'd do to him if they found out.

So he sits and listens and grins as James and Sirius explain the plan, that old Marauder glitter in their eyes. He looks directly into the trusting hazel, then the exhilarated grey, and begs for them to see.

To see how much he misses Dorcas. To see that he isn't like them, he's a coward and a _rat_ and they should know better than to trust him with this. To see just how terrified he is this summer, and how it is so much worse than they think it is.

But they don't, and he smiles.

' Of course I'll be Secret Keeper, Prongs. You only had to ask.'


End file.
